Day 27 - Bertchtesgaden

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Day 27
Sunday July 27, 1997
I sucked in that fresh mountain air. Ahhhhhhh. It was beautiful. Fantastic. My lungs were singing with appreciation. I felt like hyperventilating, just to give the two sacks of airy goodness a little treat. With the chilly refreshing mountain air and the experience of the past two days, I woke with this awareness that I am not the same young lad who arrived in Europe less than a month ago. I am different. I’ve changed. When I started out, I was an insular, shyish young man. I enjoyed watching others have all the fun, taking all the risks, enjoying all the fringe benefits of carefree philandering. Like the proverbial pigeon, I was content to peck away at the odd scraps tossed my way. But as the sun set last night, I realized that instead of waiting for life to approach me, from now on I will just grab it by the horns. It is like I have finally, suddenly, emerged from under my rock, my eyes are now open. I am free. I feel more confident. Strong. Stronger. Vibrant.

Why the change? I think I needed to remove myself from the comforting bonds of familiarity. I needed to challenge myself. The old Mark was obsessed with what others’ thought about him. What would they think if I said something goofy or odd? What would she say after I hopelessly stumbled and ultimately blew the pathetic ‘pick-up’ script I had prepared? Why was I spending my time ogling from afar instead of ogling from near? Maybe it was the rush of cold mountain air that hit me like being slugged with a waffle bat on the nose. Why? Who cares? I finally got it. Who cares what they say? Who cares if they think I was too quiet, overly shy or was a loud, obnoxious prick? It doesn’t really matter. Yesterday, I recall sitting on my seat staring out the window and was worried that a taut Austrian named Marion would be upset that I man-handled her (or got lady-handled by her) and then chose to jet off to wherever. My mind was plagued with thoughts of disappointing a young lady I had barely known. Then somewhere between the train ride and the jolt of cold mountain air, I came to the realization that I did what I wanted to do because I wanted to do it. I left Salzburg because James the Canuck wanted to check out Hitler’s summer cottage. I followed because I thought that would be pretty cool. Hitler wasn’t cool, just his alpine retreat would be cool. The decision was easy, instinctive. Forget twiddling with my worry-beads wondering whom I have disappointed. Nope. Sunday July 27th is the date of my rebirth. Hello world. Nice to meet you. I am the new me. The old one? He is still sleeping…sleep well my friend. Marion…yes…the vacant spot beside you in your bed was me. I am gone. It was fun, but I had to go. Till then.

Standing tall, proud and vibrant, enthused with ambition I looked out to a new world. How should this man, reborn, commemorate his emergence back into the world? In the theme of looking outwards and onwards, I heeded the recommendations of my Germanophile friend and decided to visit the place of supreme beauty. Like the wee newborn babe locking his wee eyes on those of his mother at first sight, I was to reward mine by delivering Mother Nature. Destination… Keilstein…aka “The Eagle’s Nest”.

To get to the Eagle’s Nest, we had to catch a bus from the main transport terminal in central Berchtesgaden. Enroute to the terminal, James provided me with a running history of the city and updated me on the historical significance of the town. Interestingly, Berchtesgaden was not only famous for being the place where Hitler has his summer home. It also prided itself in being the destination of choice for most of the elite from the Nazi party. All the wacked out crazies in brown shirts had summer homes there. Berchtesgaden was the Muskoka of the Bavarian Alps. Maybe I would find the Kraut swastika bunnies sunning on the pool deck of a local sommer hausen. Oh ya!

We followed a road that lead into the city centre. As we approached, I noticed that all the buildings were crafted with ornate pillars and architectural mouldings. In the centre of the village, we found a large public square edged with sculptures of historical figures. I felt an atmosphere that recalled days long past where the upper echelons of society lived their lives with excited extravagance and unqualified confidence. Modest homes and apartments added to the cozy feeling. The town is rather smallish with narrow streets stemming from the core. The streets lights resembled 19th century oil-based lights. They almost look like they have not been changed since first installed in the Victorian era. Then, as I turned to look behind me I had this eerie feeling come over me. I was certain we were being watched. If you recall, I had a similar feeling when I was in East Berlin. There my every step was watched and recorded by the Russian KGB. However, this time it was much more diabolical. I peered over my left shoulder to survey the crowd. There weren’t many people walking around at all. Hardly anyone. The only people I saw, walked fast, head down, deliberate. James was blathering on about something but I could not pay attention. I had more important things to focus on….like lost Nazi’s. I once read that many former Nazi’s escaped and went to Argentina. I think they are wrong.

My eyes quickly darted across the square. There, drinking in front of Starbucks….the elderly man with the Café Moccachino. I may be wrong; however I am certain that it was Rudolf Hess. Yes. He is not dead. He is just really old and living off the avails of stolen Jewish artwork. Starbucks ain’t cheap. Rudy isn’t the only one I found hiding in the former Nazi party town. I found one staring at me from behind his Colonel Klink eyepiece from behind the counter at the shop that sold batteries. I had seen his face before. Page 46 of the Nuremberg Report. The wrinkled man masquerading as a concession shop keep? Yes, I found Heindrich Himmler. He is not dead either. He, like Rudy, is hiding out in Berchtesgaden. Those bastards never left. They were here all along. We were such fools. Fools I tell you. I am going to keep my eyes alert and my mind focused because if I see any octogenarian with a goofy moustache and shifty eyes muttering incoherently when he made change for a coke at the local 7-11, I am going to take that murderous fiend out. He is mine…for mankind’s sake.

Finally, the bus arrived and we took it all the way up to the summit. The meandering climb took about 20 minutes. Finally, we arrived at the Eagle’s Nest tourist centre. The Eagle’s Nest was a quaint summer cottage that the SS built for Hitler. It was his present for being awarded “most evil person….like ever”. The cottage was constructed during the late 1930’s. Hitler used the retreat as a way of escaping from the pressures that come with being the supreme leader of the master race. I imagine that one can get quite stressed inflicting widespread murder, mayhem and genocide. Even evil people need a place to relax, refresh, recharge. And now, it is a bloody shame that I must fall in love with the exact same thing that a madman did. To link this sublime sight with that of a crazed psycho killer is a tragedy. It really is.

From here we were presented with two options to reach the peak. We could pull on our lederhosen, grab a walking stick and start to climb or we could join the ponderous beasts and take the elevator. Yes, apparently the SS did not want their supreme leader slipping on a rock (placed there by the evil claw of a hooked-nose, traitorous Zionist Jew…no doubt) and falling to his unfortunate bloody demise whereupon his master race perfect corpse would be bashed, battered and mangled into a messy pulp upon the craggy rocks below…so they built him an elevator. Once again, this turned out to be another instance where a good invention was used for evil purposes.

From the chalet, James and I climbed all the way up to the peak. We followed the pathway that meandered from his patio, across this property and up a trail to the top. We had a good time. Like the boy that I am, I jumped from rock to rock, hung from a few that overhung above the valley below and ran off to take artsy pictures of the scenery. I even stopped to pick a few of the flowers and cram them into my journal for keep-sakes. Upon reaching the summit I thought of what it would be like if my bud Carl was here. This is a place where we would thrive. The pair of us would make up games like trying to see who could throw the boulder the farthest down the mountain or who could initiate the first rock-slide or even who could climb down the furthest before one of us fell to his bloody death. While seeking out death defying games, the pair of us would probably still find flowers for chicks we haven’t met yet and take artsy pics. Anyways, I picked up a nice blue one, a purple one and a yellow one. The yellow one was the most beautiful; however it would soon leave my possession. I expect to deliver it to Yolanda tomorrow. (remember her?) More on that later as the events occur.

The mountain-view was exhilarating. Standing from atop a huge boulder I looked out to a most glorious scene. Mountains surrounded me on all sides. Directly in front of us, way down below was a spectacular mountain lake, edged by a series of cottage dotting the shoreline. I felt like I was the only person on the face of the earth. Everyone and everything else just blended in. If I had an hour or two, a quill, some ink and a parched leaf of canvas I would surely have jotted down some points of inspiration. However, I was still in exploring mode. I climbed down about 20 feet, framed some nice shots, hummed a few more bars of that damn Sound of Music song about 'climbing every mountain' and made my way back to the bus for our return descent.

To occupy our afternoon, we decided to do something different. How does hiking down a mountain trail, following a stream where it started as a trickle all the way down as it gushed and merged and transformed into a raging river at the bottom sound? What a wonderful way to not spend money. It was also a chance to check out the local nature. We followed this stream down the valley gorge for almost two hours. Wonderful sights, wonderful place, wonderful pics. During my trek I discovered that aside from being an undiscovered Pulitzer Prize winning novelist, I was also a National Geographic photographer. I hopped rock to rock across rivers to find the perfect angle for the perfect shot. I scaled up the side of an overhang and snapped off a few more. I even took one picture with a waterfall cascading down between my legs. I was cool.

About the water. I have learned to always carry an empty water bottle with me on my hikes. It is summer and it is pretty bloody hot outside. Thus, when we started our hike at the top of the valley gorge I filled up my bottle in a pool of water. I think it started somewhere as mountain runoff. Usually, I would not recommend drinking from the local streams. Back home I am certain I would certainly catch a myriad of diseases and parasites. However, this water was just incredible. It was as clear as clear. Cold. Refreshing. Clean. It was the best tasting water I have ever had….and not a spec of anything in it.

Before we made our way back to the chalet to crash, we decided to reward ourselves with some real food. Today was a long day. We have put a few miles on our boots and have scaled many rocks. To replenish our beaten bodies, we ate Italian food served on a neat little patio restaurant beside the very river that we just a walked down. Good food, good pints, good times, good day.

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